Jane elbowed Van and mimed throwing a grenade, then pointed at the dashboard.
Van shook his head. He suspected Jane only provided EXP because of her Trusted standing. Comfort levels probably factored in too. Miranda, crammed in the back with zero comfort, offered nothing yet.
Bored with the cargo bay, Miranda climbed forward to direct them. "Take a left at the rock formation."
"You know this area well?" Van asked. The desert looked identical in the dark.
"Grew up here. Can't get lost if I can see the stars."
Jane nudged Miranda. "What's this warehouse?"
"EPA won't let us sell auto parts in town. Huge fines." Miranda's cheeks puffed with indignation. "So I store them in the desert. Help folks fix their classics."
"How far?"
"Eight miles."
Van gripped the wheel tighter. "Defenses?"
Miranda blinked. "It's just a tin shed. Keeps the sand out, not much else."
Jane thought of the Hounds. "What if they come back?"
"I have gas rags. Dogs hate the smell."
The "warehouse" was a paper fortress. Fifty square meters of rusted tin patched with duct tape, a lean-to roof, and a derelict water tank. A rabbit could punch through the walls.
They moved quiet, checking the shadows, then hauled gasoline cans back to the Express. Miranda soaked oily rags and draped them over the hood and doors.
"That should do it," she said, wedging a gas-soaked strip in the door seal.
The fumes inside were overwhelming. They took turns holding a blanket as a screen while the others used emergency bags. Then they settled in for the night, wrapped in blankets against the desert cold.
"Where'd you come from?" Miranda asked, chin on her knees.
"L.A.," Jane said. She skipped the part about Myer Materials.
"Hurley used to be nice," Miranda said. "Friendly folks."
"The Mexican community too?" Jane asked, thinking of the gun shop.
"Kept to themselves. Religious, but harmless." Miranda fidgeted. "They helped build this warehouse, actually."
Jane told her about the gun shop--the girl, the hearts, the fanatics.
Miranda went pale. "Pria? She was timid. We played as kids." She gripped her wrench. "They always were secretive, but... murder?"
"You never truly know people," Van said in Mandarin.
Jane hummed agreement.
"You speak Chinese?" Van asked, surprised.
"Studied in Beijing for two years," Jane said, face buried in her knees. "Never learned to cool my food, though."
Miranda looked between them, annoyed. "You two are exhausting."
A chime rang in Van's mind.
[ PASSENGER MODULE ]
[ Miranda - Standing: Friendly ]
The gasoline fumes grew toxic. Miranda refreshed the rags, then threw the used strips outside. "We can't sleep in this. We'll asphyxiate before any Hounds get us."
Van took first watch with Jane's revolver, draped in her jacket against the chill. He watched a meteor streak across the black dome, then froze.
Five kilometers out, atop a dune, stood a silhouette.
Van grabbed the rifle. Through the scope, the figure resolved into something wrong. Tall--too tall. Arms like stilts dragging in the sand. Three fingers on each hand, each digit as long as a forearm.
It raised its spindly arms.
From the darkness, Rotters emerged. Dozens. Hundreds. They converged on the dune, forming a circle around the figure. Van spotted Hounds loping among the dead.
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"What are you looking at?" Jane's voice. She wore only a tank top, shivering in the cold.
Van handed her the rifle. "There."
She looked through the scope and gasped.
Miranda woke, groggy. "What?"
Jane shoved the scope to her eye. Miranda's mouth opened in a silent scream.
Van clamped his hand over her mouth. Jane seized her shoulders. Quiet.
Through the scope, they watched the slaughter.
The Shadow moved. Its arms became blurs. Heads detached from necks in gouts of black fluid, tumbling through the air like juggled balls. Old ones fell; new ones flew. The Hounds leaped and were bisected mid-air, halves tumbling into the sand.
For thirty minutes, the macabre dance continued. The dune turned into an abattoir.
Then The Shadow raised its hands to the moon and opened a mouth that shouldn't exist.
SCREEEEEEEEECH
The sound wasn't sound. It was a pressure wave that clawed at Van's eardrums, his teeth, his sanity. He clamped his hands over his ears, jaw agape, trying to vent the pressure.
Jane vomited across the console. Miranda's eyes rolled back; she collapsed.
When it ended, Van lay slumped in the seat, vision swimming. Jane sobbed quietly, wiping bile from her chin. Miranda was out cold.
Jane raised the rifle with shaking hands. "The survivors... they're following it."
Van looked. The Shadow descended the dune, gliding like smoke. Behind it, fifty remaining Rotters shuffled in formation, docile as sheep. The Hounds circled the herd like shepherds.
They marched south, toward the checkpoint, and vanished into the dark.
"What... what was that?" Jane whispered.
"Bioweapon," Van said, voice hoarse. "Has to be. Controlled."
"That's insane. No one would..."
"The vaping illness," Van interrupted. "The lab leaks. The pandemic." He met her eyes. "Defense contractors crave profit, not morality. You think they could resist a weapon like this?"
"Not on their own people," Jane insisted, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Hurley was an accident," Van said. He pulled out a map, tracing Highway 10 southeast to where it merged with I-25. "But think about where that bus was headed."
His finger stopped at the border. El Paso. And just beyond, Ciudad Juárez.
Jane stared at the map, understanding dawning in her horrified eyes.
"Testing ground," Van said.
Jane covered her mouth, but no rebuttal came. She had no evidence to counter his theory.
"Control the bridges over the Rio Grande at Juárez, and you contain the infection north of the border." Van traced the map with his finger. "Plus, it's close enough for observation. That Navigator probably carried observers."
He wiped the vomit from her coveralls. "The crew compartment was empty. Either they turned, or they ran."
Jane buried her face in her hands. Silent tears slipped through her fingers.
Two days. That was all it had taken for her America to collapse.
She'd been raised in the golden cage--elite schools, trust funds, the curated history of a benevolent republic. The oligarchs had built her a playground of democracy and called it freedom. Step one inch outside that garden, and the thorns tore through the illusion.
Her shoulders shook.
Van rested a hand on her back. "Welcome to the real America."
Jane looked up, mascara streaking her cheeks. "What do I do? Where do I go?"
Van eyed the storm clouds gathering in the north. "You said you wanted to survive. So we survive."
A snore rippled from the back. Miranda lay sprawled in the cargo bay, dead to the world.
Van and Jane exchanged glances. Despite everything, they laughed--bitter, exhausted laughs.
They slept.
"Up! Get up!"
Van jerked awake. Miranda was shaking his chair.
She spotted the stain on Jane's coveralls and gasped. "Morning sickness?!"
"No..." Jane waved frantically.
Van explained the Shadow's scream. How Miranda had collapsed.
"I just... fell asleep?" She touched her ears. "I thought I was tired."
Van and Jane stared at her. The girl's resilience was terrifying.
"Wait! What happened to the Shadow?" Miranda scrambled over Jane to peer at the dunes. "It's gone? It took the zombies?"
She wedged herself between them, pressing her face to the glass. "So it has intelligence? If it's herding them toward cities... more people means more hosts..."
She fired off questions like a machine gun. "Are there more Shadows? If they fought the zombies, do they fight each other?"
Van frowned. Her casual observations cut deep. Last night, that thing had butchered two hundred Rotters in minutes. If those had been Shadows instead of corpses...
And that scream. If they met one in the open...
"You're crushing me!" Jane shoved Miranda off her lap.
Miranda bounded back. "Stop zoning out, Captain! I checked the perimeter--it's clear. We can use the warehouse to clean up."
She ruffled Van's hair. "Orders?"
Van shelved his tactical dread. One problem at a time.
He scanned the horizon. "We rest. We repair."
"Yes!" Miranda whispered, already reaching for the door handle.
She clambered over Jane and dropped into the sand, shouting over her shoulder: "You two rinse off! I'm gonna mod the truck!"
Van and Jane looked at each other. Jane tilted her chin toward his door. "You first."
Van stretched, vertebrae popping. He spotted Jane gathering trash from the floor--emergency bags included.
"I'll help..."
"Don't!" She jumped back, hugging the bags to her chest.
Van understood. He raised his hands and backed away.
"What are you doing? Hurry up!" Miranda waved from the warehouse door.
She tossed Jane a grease-stained towel and pushed her toward a corrugated stall. "Wash. You smell."
She bit the word smell hard. Payback for the "you're heavy" comment.
Jane's clothes landed on the tin wall--black lace visible.
Van cleared his throat.
"Pervert! Stop looking!" Miranda grabbed his collar and dragged him away.
The warehouse defied expectations. Instead of chaos, parts lined metal shelves in perfect rows, labeled by make and model.
"Five years," Miranda said, dragging a rack toward the door. "Help me move this. I'll grab the tools."
Van hauled the rack past the shower stall, sneaking another glance.
Miranda returned with a cart. "Get the acetylene. I'll start cutting."
He rolled the tanks back. She immediately sent him away again: "Find soap for your girlfriend."
He found a bar by the sink and knocked on the stall. "Jane. Soap."
A slender hand emerged through the crack. Over the running water, her voice: "I heard cutting. What are you doing?"
Van leaned against the tin, watching Miranda work. "She's fabbing steel."
He raised his voice. "Miranda! What's the plan?"
"Window cages!" She didn't look up, sparks flying from her cutter. "And I'm building a proper seat for myself!"
The water stopped. Jane emerged, hair dripping, face bare.
Without the makeup, Van noticed the freckles across her nose. She looked younger. Sharper. Beautiful.
"Your turn!" Miranda called, inspecting metal strips. "You stink like a slaughterhouse!"
Jane crouched beside her, examining the measurements. Water dripped from her hair onto the blueprints.
From the stall, the sound of running water resumed.
Miranda nudged Jane's ribs, grinning. "Your clothes are on the rack..."
Jane's face turned crimson--visible now without her cosmetic mask.
Miranda leaned close, whispering, "He's built well. For an Eastern guy."
She grabbed Jane's wrist. "Let's mess with him."